


fell in love with avoiding problems -

by dovbt (orphan_account)



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7755784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/dovbt





	fell in love with avoiding problems -

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. thick and white like the purest of clouds that blanket the brown earth that’s been dead since october, it’s snowing.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. fluffy and wholesome like the cleanest of pillows that tyler’s never been known to lay his head on, it’s snowing.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. the cracks in the frosted glass of the window are like thousands of miniscule spiderwebs, branching off in every direction; tyler’s brother had broken it once last spring with a baseball gone astray, and his father kept putting off fixing it (says he doesn’t have the time, tyler knows he doesn’t have the money). the world outside is a watercolor wash of white and grey, boring in its beauty. columbus snow lost its magic when tyler turned nine.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. it falls from the heavens like angels crying as their wings are bent and then broken; tyler can picture the visage of their tears staining their holy, porcelain skin, the sound of their bones snapping at the insistence of their creator’s hands. he shivers, and it’s not because of the cold that blankets his room or the frost coating his window panes.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. the world is a still thing, and tyler’s heartbeat is as quiet as the snowfall in the cage that his ribs have made. everything feels fragile, has a dream-like quality to it; if he speaks too loud, if he breathes too heavy, if his heartbeat is too insistent, everything around him will shatter.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. he can still feel the fragility of everything when he turns away from the crack in his window and the blank slate of the world outside in its’ white and grey, boring beauty; he drifts from room to room, like a ghost treading the hallways of his house, fingertips tracing the wall, eyes scanning picture frames of happy moments, happy memories. his smile is toothy, crooked, in all of them, his arm thrown around his sister or his mother or his brothers but never his father.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. the floorboards creak under his feet when he traipses down the stairs, and he holds his breath, holds still; everything freezes, everything feels as if it might break and crumble under the hold he has on the stairway’s railing. a warning.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. the air is cold when he sucks in a sharp breath. nothing breaks, nothing crumbles, nothing shatters, but he’s been warned. his footsteps are even lighter than before, careful with a practiced ease he hadn’t known he’d possessed up until this moment. the last step awaits his feet, and he knows this one creaks if he puts his weight in the middle – it’s a mistake he’s only made once.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. he tiptoes down the stairs, tiptoes over the last step, and his socked toes skim the wooden flooring. for a second, a brief second that chills his heart all the way down to his bones, he’s suspended in air, hanging by a thread, and that thread snaps when his feet land on solid ground. everything halts, his breath stopping in his throat, everything frozen as he listens. it’s so quiet that maybe, if he listens hard enough, he can hear the snowfall on the other side of the wooden front door.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. brown eyes peer around the wall into the living room; no one is to be seen in the belly of the beast except for the beast itself. his father is sound asleep in the reclining chair nearest to the door; the tv is muted, but the pictures splay and spread and dance across the screen in numerous flashing colors. it doesn’t fit the atmosphere of everything around him, of the grey-white, boringly beautiful world outside, of the cracked, frosted window or the fondly remembered pictures on the wall or the creaking floorboards that reek of danger.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. creeping across the floor, he remembers where to place his feet to avoid making any noise. he steps forward on his toes, entire body wound tight, ready to spring at any given second if his brown eyes land on or his sensitive ears hear any potential threat; numerous pairs of shoes, ranging in and lined up by size, are by the front door in a neat line. jay’s are the biggest, maddy’s the smallest. his are in the middle and he slides his feet into place in the soles.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. his breath is bated, every muscle in his body on alert. there’s no such thing as relaxation in this house.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. the front door always creaks when opened. tyler knows this. he should go back upstairs and sneak through the cracked window, but the floorboards creak more going up than they do going down. he knows this. he knows this so well.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. he unlatches the door. it creaks when it’s opened. in the dead of the silence, the sound rings out, and every muscle in tyler’s body screams in agony when his father makes a small, subdued noise. his head whips around to meet his father’s bloodshot eyes on his, lips drawn back in a snarl. he looks like a feral dog, especially when he lumbers to his feet, rising to a full six foot five. tyler swallows down a moan of terror, but a small noise leaks out, legs shaking, knees knocking together. his father says his name. it’s low in tone, venom seeping through every syllable.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. tyler throws open the door, and it bangs off the wall, shattering the silence, shaking the two-story house. the world is a blank slate, grey and white, boring beauty.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. the snow is undisturbed. his father stalks toward him. tyler springs to life.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. hands reach out toward him, his name an irate shout ripped from his father’s throat; those same hands nearly latch onto the hood of his jacket, but he’s already gone.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. the snow is no longer undisturbed, churned by a set of footprints, a boy sprinting for dear life merely a grey-white blur in a grey-white, boringly beautiful world; his father won’t chase him. he never does. the effort is never worth it, but the consequences always are. he has time to think about how he will punish him for running. he always runs.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. his hair is dotted with flurries, body shaking with the chill. his jacket is too light for him to be outside in this weather; his arms cling to his chest and tears have frozen to his cheeks. he tries to scrub them away but the tracks don’t budge. he doesn’t know where he’s going. nothing feels right. everything has crumbled, shattered, broken.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. he knows where to go.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. the houses in the neighborhood are all cookie-cutter-perfect, all the same shades of plain grey in an equally as grey and white, boringly beautiful world. the people who belong in these houses, looking out at a blank slate of a world from perfect, uncracked windows, know this boy by his lanky, wiry, underfed body and his dark, unkempt, forever untamed hair. one particular house on the left knows him too well.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. snowflakes catch in his eyelashes, melt when he blinks. the house is two story, like his own. grey, like his own. perfect, like his own. except, this house has perfect windows, perfectly _uncracked_ windows. when he raps his knuckles across the door, the chill that touches his skin gives him momentary pause. he forgets what he’s here for.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. the perfect house has a perfect door, perfect frame, perfect windows, perfect everything. the snow crunches under tyler’s feet as he nervously shifts his weight from side to side. no answer, he thinks, but the door swings open not a second later.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. the boy standing in front of him is swathed in layers; a t-shirt collar pokes out from the jacket he’s wearing that could likely be suitable for living in alaska, fleece leggings clinging to muscular legs. drummer’s legs. his nose is red, contrasting sharply with the ring through one of his nostrils; his pink cheeks are flushed, mocha eyes puffy. tyler knows this face well. this boy has a cold.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. the boy’s hands reach for his face, cupping his jaw, eyes inspecting, looking for bruises, cuts, fractures, puncture marks. nothing. he finds nothing, but his hands don’t leave his face. he is warm, so warm, and tyler leans into the touch, craving more. he gets more. the boy takes his body in his own, wrapping around him, smoothing a hand through his hair and moving the other to settle around his waist. tyler’s cheeks are wet. the tears freeze once they make contact with his skin.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. the boy tugs him outside once tyler says his name – _josh_. the first word he’s spoken all day, accompanied with a tiny, hidden smile that josh smothers with his own. their kisses are sweet, warm, taste like mint. josh’s tongue tangles with his own, hands moving to press against his chest, fingers spreading until he can feel tyler’s heartbeat under every fingertip.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. it catches in josh’s hair, in his eyelashes. he’s never looked more beautiful; tyler voices this, tiny, broken. josh laughs. it warms tyler’s heart, makes his body heat up, cheeks flush. josh takes him by the hand and closes the door behind them.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. the inside of josh’s house smells like things tyler associates with both happiness and christmas; peppermint, hot chocolate, gingerbread, josh’s cologne. the floorboards don’t creak in this house, and tyler can step as heavily as he wants to. he can place all his weight in the middle of the bottom step without fear of danger looming over his shoulder, watching him, waiting to take him. there is only the sound of their feet skimming wooden floors that don’t creak when they step, josh’s hand wrapped around his, warming him to his very core.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. josh drags him upstairs by the collar of his jacket and shuts the door to his own bedroom, one he doesn’t have to share with a sibling, behind them once more. his eyes sing with mischief, and tyler complains about being cold with an overexaggerated shiver; josh laughs, kisses him senseless and presses him to the doorframe and bites his bottom lip. he tells him that he knows a way they can warm up, and tyler laughs, this time. show me, he tells josh, and josh does.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. in josh’s bed, he is no longer cold, despite being naked. there are no theatrics, no games, no words, just the two of them, alone in a grey-white, boringly beautiful world. josh is anything but boring. he finds every way to make life interesting; right now, tyler’s very interested in the things he does with his hands and mouth.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. he is spread flat on his back against the navy blue sheets of josh’s bed that contrast sharply with both of their winter-paled skin. josh is fairer than tyler; he internally compares their skin tones as josh settles firmly on top of his chest. they smell like sex, sweat, peppermint, hot chocolate, gingerbread; all things them, all things winter, all things beautiful. tyler cards a hand through his hair and josh nuzzles his chest, kisses all over the marks he’s left on his skin, kisses all over the marks he never made.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing. tyler forgets about home, forgets about bruises and marks and scabs and cuts and bumps except those that josh has given him; he is bitten with love, bloody with love, sweaty with love. josh smiles into his chest and tyler knows the consequences are dire, can see them behind his closed eyelids, but everything seems far away when josh is in his arms.

it’s december,

and it’s snowing.


End file.
